45 Across
by microgirl
Summary: Twenty letters for a questionable Agatha Christie novel...GSR


_45 Across_

_Spoilers: Living Doll (yet another post episode fic)_

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone in regards to CSI; the show and its characters belong to a bunch of people who aren't me. I am merely borrowing the characters for my own amusement. Dance puppets, dance._

_Author's Note: This is my entry to the geekfiction summer ficathon. In my usual shipments of fluff, I somehow got a package of angst. Instead of sending it back, I decided to use it. This piece is different from my usual style, so I hope you all like it. This is also a companion to "53 Down." It's not essential to read it, but you are more than welcome to._

_EllipsesBandit deserves major, major kudos for her beta services. She not only talked most of this one out with me, she did some speedy beta work. Thank you very much, my friend. This one is for you :)_

* * *

"I moved the furniture so there's plenty of room to get around. I thought temporary ramps would be too steep on the stairs, so I moved our bedroom to the down stairs guestroom-bed, dressers, furniture, everything. A crew put in support handles by the toilet and on the walls in the bathtub, but the doctor said you needed to take it easy, so I can help you in the bathroom. And I padded the sharp edges of the coffee table and the end tables."

Sara sighed deeply. "You've certainly thought of everything." She glanced around the front room. "But padding the tables? I'm not a little kid learning to walk."

He gazed down at her in the wheel chair with a rueful expression. "I know, honey, but I didn't want to risk you bumping your leg. You need plenty of time to heal." After she nodded reluctantly, he picked up a small box from the coffee table. "I also have this for you too."

"A _bell_?" Picking up the object, she stared at it in utter disbelief. "You bought me a _bell_?"

"Yes. If I'm in another part of the house, and you need me, you can just ring it."

Her shoulders dropped slightly, and she gave him a tight smile. "Thank you." She took another deep breath, keeping her eyes averted from his face. When Grissom heard a light sniffle, he immediately crouched by her side to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. He could only imagine how difficult it was for her to go from being so independent to suddenly having to depend entirely on someone else.

He kept thanking whatever fate or higher power existed that Sara was found; that she was alive. After she was brought to the hospital, the doctors assessed her injuries: cuts, bruises on her torso, and her right leg broken in three places, along with some tendon and ligament damage. A white cast extended from her upper thigh all the way to her foot. The orthopedist left them with strict instructions that she not put any weight on the leg for several weeks.

Eventually she looked up at him, her determined expression back in place. Only one side of her lips tugged upward when he kissed her temple.

Gently extracting her hand, she looked down the hallway to the living room. "Where's Puck?"

"He's out in the backyard."

She finally found his eyes. "Well, bring him inside. It's been two weeks since I've seen him." She started to wheel herself forward, but Grissom rose to push her.

As soon as they got into the living room, the large boxer who had been sitting patiently on the deck, leaped to his hind legs, and began scratching at the door.

Leaving Sara parked by the couch, Grissom opened the door enough to grab Puck's collar, leading the dog inside. But once she called the boxer's name, Puck's exuberance quickly overcame Grissom's grip. The boxer's paws flew over the arm rest causing the wheel chair to jerk as they slammed into her stomach.

"_PUCK!_" Grissom angrily bellowed. "_GET DOWN, NOW!!_"

Whimpering, Puck instantly jumped down, his ears pinned back. Grissom's stern eyes followed him until he lay down.

"Gil! What the hell was that?!" she exclaimed.

Gesturing toward the dog, he huffed. "He almost knocked you over."

Deep lines of anger etched in her forehead. "No, he didn't. If anything, he moved the chair a couple of inches. _That's it_," she emphasized. "Puck was fine. And don't ever yell at him like that."

Grissom's jaw tightened, and he was about to argue back, but she ignored him. Turning her attention to the dog, she called his name a few times in a low, soothing voice. Puck got up, and tentatively walked to her. Grissom watched the reunion as she stroked the furry head in her lap. The boxer lapped at her fingers making Sara giggle. It was the most welcome sound to Grissom's ears; he hadn't heard her laugh in over a month.

Finally, her weary brown eyes turned up at the entomologist. Even though there was pain and frustration, he could also see her immense relief to be home-to be back with her family.

Just as he began to apologize, she used her hand to cover a large yawn.

Tilting his head to the side, he gently asked, "Do you want to go to bed?"

Sara simply nodded, her lids slowly slipping down. He pushed her down the hallway leading to their newly relocated room, while Puck dutifully followed. He knew she couldn't wait to get back in their bed, and sleep in their sheets. Despite her protests, he picked her up, carefully placing her on the mattress. He then set to work propping her injured leg under a pillow and arranging the other pillows and blankets to her liking. The bell was placed on her nightstand.

With the dog curled by her side, she fell into what he hoped to be a nightmare-less sleep. Grissom lips lingered on the warm skin of her forehead before he quietly slipped out of the bedroom.

Inside the study, he opened the box containing the books he'd ordered. _Fingerprinting: New Techniques and Tools, Advancing Trace Analysis, Principles of Self Defense, _and _Psychology of a Serial Killer._

* * *

Later that evening, he found Sara lying against the stack of pillow, aimlessly flipping through the television channels. As he approached the bed, Grissom held up the tray he'd been carrying. "I brought dinner; vegetable soup."

She sat up straighter, her bored expression quickly morphed into a grin. "Great! After all of that nasty hospital food and thirty pounds of Jell-O, I can't tell you how good it is to see real food. But you didn't have to bring it to me in here." Gesturing to the door, she continued, "I could've eaten at the table."

Setting the tray across her lap, he shrugged. "I thought staying in here would be easier for you. No point in putting unwanted stress on your leg."

Her lips twitched in annoyance, but she didn't say anything. She picked up the spoon, and stirred through the contents of the bowl. Taking a polite sip from the utensil, her eyebrows flew downward in confusion. She worked the liquid in her mouth for only a moment, before carefully swallowing. "Did you, um…try a new recipe?"

He shook his head, sitting along the edge of the mattress. "No. It's the same one. I just used peas, carrots, corn and beans this time, and a little bit of salt and parsley."

"Oh." Her tone remained mild. "Why?"

"Your body is still healing. Anything too heavy or too spicy might make you sick."

Nodding, she slowly ate another spoonful, and thanked him.

"You're welcome." He smiled warmly at her. "I've also got dessert in the kitchen."

"Cheesecake ice cream?" she asked hopefully.

"No, it's Jell-O."

"More Jell-O?"

He gently ran his fingers on her uninjured leg. "I know you were tired of the cherry flavor at the hospital so I bought lime and orange."

------------------------------------------

Grissom stayed in the bedroom, reading a forensics journal while she watched a movie. An hour later, Sara announced she was ready to go to bed, and he instantly sprung into action. He helped dress her in a pair of his old boxers and a ratty 51s t-shirt. In the bathroom, he squeezed toothpaste on her toothbrush, and gave her a plastic basin so she could rinse out her mouth without having to stretch to the sink. It was when she wanted to use the toilet that she adamantly protested his help.

Her arms had already reached for the guide rails. "I can handle this part on my own."

"I know you can. I just want to make sure you don't fall," he countered. "After that, I promise I'll go."

She sighed. "Fine, whatever." And when she lost some of her grip, he immediately had an arm under her shoulder.

By the bed again, Grissom made sure he had all of her weight supported before lifting her out of the chair. He straightened and smoothed the sheets so she wouldn't become entangled.

His hand found her cheek where his thumb traced its shape over and over. The action viscerally reminded him of finding her under the car, near drowning and frozen. He moved closer, the warmth of her body more comforting.

He studied the rest of her face: the deep brown eyes that, despite everything she'd been through, had never lost their sparkle; her freckled nose, which scrunched up adorably whenever he offered her a chocolate covered grasshopper; and the smooth, graceful shape of her mouth.

The most beautiful smiles came when he brought home a pint of her favorite ice cream or when he drew a bubble bath for her after a long shift. Her smile would stretch across her face, causing her cheeks to lift, and two small dimples would be faintly revealed. He tried to remember the last time he had seen one of those smiles, and his jaw tightened considerably; he knew it had been at least a few months.

"I'm going to read for a while," he finally whispered. "Do you need anything else?" He now stroked his hand over her hair.

"No," she breathed, on the cusp of sleep. "You think of everything."

Grissom shook his head sadly, gazing to the wall behind her. "Not all the time."

* * *

Breakfast was plain toast, oatmeal, and orange juice. Grilled cheese and sliced fruit made up lunch, and he stuck with vegetable soup for dinner. He planned to make stew in the coming days-maybe he'd add some potatoes. But for now, he wanted to gradually introduce regular food back to her.

Their days were spent mostly apart. Grissom would leave her alone to rest while he continued his research. Every hour or so, he'd leave the office to check if she needed anything. Sara had used the bell twice before stopping, and rarely called for him. He feared she might be trying to do too much on her own.

By the middle of the second week at home, she started getting restless. She'd apparently read all the newest journals and re-read the old issues, and watched more daytime television than she ever wanted to.

"C'mon, Gil," she begged after lunch. "The only trees I've seen are when the soap characters have their coffee at the outdoor café'. Let's take Puck to the park. I bet he hasn't had a decent walk in weeks."

He knew he didn't have much of a choice when she tried moving from the bed to the wheel chair by herself. With great reluctance, Grissom snapped on the dog's leash and pushed her through the front door.

He found them an unoccupied section of grass where the boxer could run freely and none of the other patrons could disturb Sara with their outdoor activity.

The pair took turns throwing the rubber ball, watching Puck chase it down as if it were the center to his existence. The muscles in Grissom's shoulders relaxed, and his eyes quit darting around the area; he finally accepted the peaceful afternoon.

However, when Sara started to wheel herself under a big tree, she hit a rather steep dip in the ground, jostling the wheel chair. The movement jerked her encased leg, causing her to wince at the pain.

As he tended to her, he privately berated himself for not guiding her to the tree and for not securing her injured leg earlier at the house.

* * *

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Grissom placed the pan of Jell-O before answering it.

"Dr. Grissom? Hi, I'm Ross Clark," the lab courier greeted. "Catherine Willows sent me here to bring you the files you requested." He handed the entomologist a clipboard. "I just need you to sign this."

Carefully scanning the form, Grissom peered at the young man over his glasses. "And everything I wanted is here?"

"Yes, sir." Ross held a sealed box between them. "The notes, interviews, and crime photos for the Delancey, Garden, Suarez, Tallman/Kamen, and Sidle cases."

"Perfect," Grissom muttered as he signed the release form. He traded the clipboard with Ross, accepting the heavy box.

Before leaving, Ross said, "I thought these cases were closed. Was there something you thought you missed?"

Glaring at him, Grissom gave a curt "thank you," and promptly closed the door.

* * *

A loud crash, and an even louder, "God damn it!" caused him to immediately reach out. When his hand encountered only warm sheets, Grissom's eyes opened in sheer panic.

Flipping on the lamp, he rushed out of bed to the other side where he found Sara on the floor. The clock and a book had fallen from her nightstand, and she lay awkwardly on the floor. He gently lifted her up, and placed her in the wheel chair.

"What happened, honey?" His eyes scanned her body, looking for any injuries. "Are you okay?"

She leaned back, rubbing her elbow cautiously. "Oh, I needed to go to the bathroom and I was just trying to get into my chair and I guess I lost my balance."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"It's not a big deal. I probably just bruised my arm. My leg doesn't even hurt," she protested.

Tilting his head, he touched her cheek. "Sara, I don't want you to hurt yourself. I know you're frustrated, but you can't…" Grissom paused, considering his next words. "You can't do this by yourself."

She backed her chair away to the end of the bed, a look of disdain on her face. "Christ, Gil, you're right. Because you _won't_ let me."

"I won't _let_, you?" he huffed. Confused, he ran a hand through his hair, and gestured at her. "Sara, your leg is broken! You're still healing."

"Yeah, and it's been three weeks since I've been home, and you won't let me do a damn thing for myself." Her angry voice filled the room. "I can't get from the chair to the bed and vice versa because you're always carrying me. I can't even try to get dressed on my own." She threw her hands up in aggravation. "Hell, I can't even use the bathroom without you being there. Those bars in there haven't even been used!"

"Because you almost fell when you tried to use them!"

"It was the _first_ time," she cried. "Yeah, I'm going to have a little trouble. But if you give me a chance, give me a little practice, I'll be able to do it." A harsh breath left her nose. "But, no. You're breathing down my neck, doing every little thing for me when you're not holed up in your office."

He could feel the anger bubbling to the surface like hot lava. Why was she being so ungrateful? After everything he'd done; cooking her meals, padding the furniture, helping her bathe-how could she be so rude to him?

His pulse had to have reached ninety-five, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. "I am trying to help you. I just want to make sure you don't get hurt."

A hand slapped the arm rest. "I know that! But that doesn't mean I can't do some things for myself." Staring at the wall for a moment, she turned back to him. "Honestly, what is your problem?"

His finger pointed at his chest. "I don't have a problem! You…y-you're the one with the injuries." He swallowed. "I'm just trying to help to help fix it; I'm just trying to fix what I did!"

Her frown instantly dissolved and her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "Fix what you did? What are you talking about?"

"It's my fault!" he blurted. "It's my fault this happened to you." The words burst out before he had to censor them, and then they wouldn't stop. "If I'd…if I'd been doing my job…if I'd been paying closer attention, none of _this _would have ever happened."

Sitting back, Sara stared at him, her mouth hanging open in surprise. She licked her lips. "Gil…you did the best you could with this. We all did!" She paused. "Everyone one of us studied those crime scenes, and…we couldn't find anything conclusive." Her brown eyes suddenly begged him to understand.

"I don't accept that! It's my job to be smarter than the criminals." He waved toward the window, to the invisible band of murderers, rapists, and thieves that existed outside their home. "It's my job to find the clues they think they didn't leave behind." His jaw twitched form the tightness at which he held it. "And I wasn't doing my job. I missed something. I don't know if it was a hair or a fiber or a fingerprint, but something was there, and I didn't see it." His thick hand scrubbed down his face. "The criminals aren't supposed to be smarter than me."

"We did everything we could--"

"No! No we didn't!" His voice increased in intensity and volume. "I didn't do everything because if I had, I'd have found the bleach connection. We'd have looked into ventriloquist dolls instead of limiting the scope to regular dolls." He started pacing the small space between the bed frame and the wall. "I'd have known she was escalating when the third one was delivered to me. You would have been more careful and fought back. If I…"

As soon as he heard the words, Grissom's stomach dropped to his knees. He stopped, balling his fists up as he watched all the blood drain from Sara's face in an instant. Her eyes grew wide with shock, and the only sound in the room was that of her shallow, quick breathing.

"Wha-what did you say?" she whispered as if she couldn't believe what just she just heard. He couldn't believe it either; he had never, _never_ wanted to voice that thought out loud.

"You-you…thought..." She audibly swallowed. When she did speak, Grissom had to strain to hear her choked voice. "…thought that I…I didn't."

The oxygen seemed to have mysteriously disappeared. His mouth opened and closed several times as tried to think of something, _anything_ to say. But what came to mind fell short of an explanation she so desperately needed.

When she gazed up at him again, her lashes were dark from the wetness that had gathered there. "Get out," she harshly whispered.

"Oh, Sara…" Taking a step forward, he felt the pain rolling off her in waves.

"Get out," she repeated through gritted teeth.

"I didn't-"

"JUST GET OUT!!" she screamed at him. A shuddering breath rippled through her body, and her eyelids slammed shut. The trembling started in her shoulders, moving down her back and chest, and into her legs. One hand covered her face while the other gripped the arm rest tightly as she tried to suppress the tears.

Knowing there was nothing he could say now, he dragged himself out of the room, quietly closing the door. Leaning his head against the cool wood, he heard Sara's gut wrenching sobs moments later-the kind that made her body hurt so much, she forgot to breathe. Bile rose in his throat, and his heart twisted at knowing he had caused her that much pain.

It took every bit of his physical strength to push away from the door. He stumbled toward the living room, the throbbing in his head pulsating in time with his heart beat. Collapsing on the sofa, he rubbed his temples in small circles. But the action had no effect for the on-coming migraine; somehow Sara's touch had become more soothing...

* * *

Around six o' clock the next morning Grissom pulled himself off the couch, giving up any attempts at sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he guessed he slept maybe an hour or two; every time he had closed his eyes, he only saw the agony etched in her face, and it made him feel nauseous all over again.

He gazed down the hallway, debating if he should venture into the bedroom. Unfortunately, though, he still hadn't formulated an appropriate apology, so he thought he should wait until she came out.

The door creaked open at 9:07, and Sara slowly wheeled into the living room. Placing his mug on the coffee table, he noted with much ache and guilt, her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. Ignoring him completely, she headed into the kitchen. While she'd been able to get into her wheel chair without his help, she'd still need assistance in making breakfast. Carefully, he followed her into the kitchen, and reached for the refrigerator door, but her own hand jerked it open. There was nothing but fury in those brown eyes, and her mouth fixed in such a deep line when she glanced up at him, he knew he shouldn't speak.

She grabbed an orange from one of the drawers and a bottle of water from the lower shelf and slammed the door, leaving in an icy silence. The backyard needed to be mowed, and the trash needed to taken out, but Grissom stayed in the living room the rest of the day. He hoped she'd leave a clue to allow him to speak to her. But he only saw her twice more when she needed more food, and she never acknowledged his presence. Each time, he clenched his fists tightly to keep himself from going to her as she went to get food; she couldn't even make herself a sandwich or get a glass of orange juice. He could only guess it would make the situation much worse if he tried to help.

After the muffled sounds of the water running, the wood door to their bedroom closed for the last time that night. Grissom thought of times that seemed so long ago when he'd fall asleep under the cool, cotton sheets, with Sara pressed against his back, holding him in a gentle hug, and Puck snoring softly at their feet. As he sat in the recliner under a polyester blanket, gazing at the lawn bathed in the moonlight, he wondered if he'd get a night like that again.

* * *

The bright orange light of dawn forced Grissom awake. His stiff neck and sore muscles reminded him he had slept in the recliner; a piece of furniture in no way designed to support a sleeping human body for longer than a catnap.

Groaning, he gradually stood up and carefully stretched his aching limbs. Having spent all of yesterday scrubbing every surface in the living room and kitchen, he was unsure of what to do. He could review the notes from his research or read a book, but his glasses still remained in the bedroom. And Sara was in the bedroom. However, he couldn't stare at a wall all day, and he couldn't leave the vicinity of the room in case she decided to look at him today.

Taking several deeps breaths, he slowly walked down the hall. He stood at the door with his armed raised, ready to knock, but a small whimper from the other side made him enter unannounced. The sight on the bed made his heart drop and the breath leave his lungs.

Sara lay there, her eyes closed tightly and her face scrunched up in fright. Puck stared at him with sad eyes from the end of the bed as Grissom sat on her side. Though she may be absolutely furious at him, she didn't need to be lost in one of her nightmares. He brushed his hand along the clammy skin of her neck, but she immediately recoiled from his touch. She whimpered again, clutching the blankets closer.

He drew his hand away quickly, still not quite believing what just happened. Normally she would relax somewhat under his touch, and turn into his welcoming arms. Now, it seemed as if he had made it worse, pushing her into some horrible land where she still might be trapped under a car. Where he trapped her under the car.

In his darkest moments when the guilt all but consumed him, the thoughts of why she didn't defend herself crept into his conscience. It was in the hospital, when he was allowed to see her that he wondered why a woman with years of self defense training allowed herself to be overpowered. But it wasn't her fault, it wasn't. It was his fault, and he had gripped her hand tightly in the white room.

When Sara's whimpers subsided, and her breathing evened out, he grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, and bolted from the room. He sat at the couch with his laptop, looking for any sort of distraction from his emotions. His fingers guided him to the joint email account, and found the alerts for the crossword puzzles. _Tantalizing Titles_ was the first one they'd missed.

The keyboard tapping began as soon as he read the clue for three across: William Shakespeare's June evening allusion. He frowned at twenty-one down: A paramours' discord by Robert Browning. But as soon as he reached forty-five across, he stopped.

Forty-five across: Agatha Christie's questionable novel. 1934.

Though he wasn't entirely familiar with her novels, Grissom was sure none of Agatha Christie's books had a question in the title. A glimpse of the book shelf filled with Sara's mystery novels caught his eye as he concentrated on the screen. Sara would know. She told him she had read quite a few of the English woman's books when she was younger. But Sara was still in their bedroom, fighting the demons alone.

Huffing at the black and white cubes, he drummed his fingers against his leg. Twenty minutes later with nothing to put in the boxes except for some random letters from other clues, he cursed rather loudly.

"What's wrong?"

His head jerked up at Sara's soft question; he hadn't heard her wake up. They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment, before Grissom finally answered.

"I-uh…I'm doing a crossword puzzle." He cleared his throat. "And I…I can't get one of the clues."

"Oh." Staying rooted in her place, about ten feet away from him, she nodded. "Did you…want some…help?"

He didn't even hesitate. "Yes." Adjusting his glasses, he told her," A questionable Agatha Christie novel. 1934. Twenty letters."

She only pursed her lips in thought for a few seconds, before she said, "_Why Didn't They Ask Evans?_"

"I-uh…I take it you read that one?" he asked as he typed in the answer.

Nodding again, she pushed herself a little closer. "Yeah. It's about a guy named Bobby Jones, who finds a dying man on the bottom of a cliff. The dying man's last words are 'why didn't they ask Evans?' Bobby and his friend Lady Frances set out to find who murdered the man and who Evans is." She shrugged. "It's also known as _The Boomerang Clue."_

The room descended into the uneasy silence from the past two days, but Sara cut it with the same small voice from earlier. "Did you need help with any more of the puzzle?"

Grissom's only answer was to make room for her on the sofa.

After easing next to him and propping her foot under a pillow on the table, they kept a respectable between them distance as they finished the crossword. Typing in the last clue, Grissom glanced over at her; a small smile graced her lips.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For this." She waved at the computer. "This was…normal."

Setting the laptop aside, he gave her his full attention. "Sara, honey..." He trailed off, his blues eyes pleading with her. "I am so, so sorry about what I said to you. I didn't mean…I never thought…"

Her lashes were wet again. "I did everything I could."

"Oh, honey." He slowly reached out, and she didn't retreat this time. Gently pulling her into his arms, he tucked her head under his chin. He instantly wondered if the position was uncomfortable for her, twisting her torso over her injured limb. He was about to pull back, but Sara leaned further into him, nuzzling his neck.

For a long time, Grissom reacquainted himself with the silky texture of her hair and the sweet apple scent. He missed the soothing warmth of her body snuggled close to his more than he could say.

"I know you did." Brushing soft kisses across her forehead, he thought back to the mud and debris caked under her fingernails from digging into the earth. "I know you did."

"You did too." She tightened her arm around his stomach. "You did everything," she clarified.

He sighed, his body stiffening at her words. "Sara…" But he didn't get a chance to continue as she sat up and framed his face with her soft palms.

"Gil, did you inject me with a sedative?"

He shook his head.

"Did you get that car from the impound, and place it in the desert?"

"No."

"Did you put me under it?"

"No."

"Did you build the model of it?"

"No."

"Than you did not this." Her voice was steady and firm as she repeated herself, "You. Are not. Responsible.

"When I woke up at the hospital, I…I…blamed myself," she told him, her voice breaking. "I wondered if there was something I did wrong." She sniffled. "But I went over and over what happened, and I realized I didn't do anything wrong; she just caught me by surprise. There was no way of knowing she was coming after me." Bringing their face within an inch of each other, she murmured, "It wasn't your fault or my fault. It was _her_ fault."

Logically her reasoning was sound, but he couldn't convince himself. Maybe he wasn't directly responsible, but his own lacking investigation led to her kidnapping. Though, it was an immense relief to hear she didn't blame herself.

He broke from his thoughts, and relished in the sensation of her fingers against his cheeks. Realizing she was still waiting for some kind of confirmation, he closed his eyes, turning his head enough to kiss one of her palms.

Sighing contently, she placed her head in that perfect fit between his neck and his shoulder. He slipped a hand under her t-shirt, and receiving no objections, he let his fingers skate up and down her back.

"And I know you feel guilty, and you want to help me, but I can do some things on my own," she pointed out, smirking a little. "Like going to the bathroom and getting dressed. And I know I should have told you sooner, but-"

"Why didn't you?" he cut her off gently.

"Because this was your way of letting me know you loved me: your overprotective, paranoid, invade-every-bit-of-my-personal-space way."

Not being able to wait any longer, he kissed her. Her mouth was as soft as cotton candy at the amusement park, and tasted just as sweet. He felt his brain shutting down the moment her fingers started raking though his graying curls. Leaning his forehead against her's, a deep chuckle rumbled in his throat. "So you want me to back off?"

"Just a little," she whispered conspiratorially.

His smile faded, and his expression turned more solemn. "Can I still cook for you?"

"Only if it's real food. No more soup, and no more Jell-O."

"I thought you liked Jell-O."

"I _did_. But between you and the hospital, I've eaten so much that if a doctor opened me up, he'd find a rainbow colored mold of my digestive system."

He shook his head, grinning. "Well, what _real_ food would you like?"

"A burrito. I want a burrito from Roberto's," she answered, her tone taking on a far away, dreamy quality. "Their vegetarian special with the potatoes and lettuce, sour cream, and salsa." She scooted closer to him. "I know you hate leaving the house, but I really, really want a burrito."

Nodding, he moved forward to kiss her nose. "Okay." Cold Stone Creamery was a block away from Roberto's; he made a mental note to pick up a pint of strawberry cheesecake ice cream for her.

Threading their fingers together, he squeezed her hand tightly. "Are we okay?"

Sara shook her head. "No. We're not." She used her other hand to brush a stray curl from his forehead. "But we can be."

She offered a small smile, and he nodded in return. Settling against each other and the cushions, they started another crossword.

"Hmmm," she said, after studying the screen. "I don't think you need my help with this puzzle. Four down, an eleven letter word for despotic." He gazed down at her impassive expression. "You know that one, right?"

"Yeah, I think I've got it," he deadpanned. "But what's a nine letter word for temperamental?"

The sharp jab to his midsection was worth it to hear Sara laugh.

* * *

_August 2007_

"I always knew you loved that dog more than me."

"What can I say? He's more appreciative of my tummy rubs than you are."

Pursing his lips in a mock scowl, Grissom watched in the doorway as Sara cooed to the dog and scratched his furry stomach. With his body stretched along the bed and his legs dangled in the air, the boxer whined happily at her ministrations.

When she gave Puck a final pat, he flopped over to his side, content. Grissom moved to sit next to her. "When is your next appointment with Dr. Copley?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. She said the last x-rays looked good, and I should get my clearance for field work this time."

As soon as her cast was removed, Sara couldn't wait to get out of the house. After each physical therapy session, she begged him more and more to let her come back to work. She'd been allowed to do part time lab work, and gradually moved up to full shifts.

She turned into his side, rubbing her right foot along his calf. "Were you able to get Friday off?"

"Catherine agreed to fill in for me at court. We can just ride over to Dr. Westin's after shift."

At first he had been opposed to couple's therapy, but after the first few sessions, he began warming up to the idea. They had discussed many of the problems that had plagued them, especially the kidnapping. He knew it would be a while before he worked through his guilt completely, but he felt better than he had in the last three months.

He opened the laptop to the familiar beep of new email. The Monday crossed word puzzle awaited them on the screen.

"Two down," she started, and Grissom raised an eyebrow at her. "I like to vary things every now and then."

"Two down," she went on, "sedulity."

-----------------------------

The End


End file.
